


Honey

by Ludwiggle73



Series: Christmas Tidbits [4]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Choking, Christmas Eve, Light Bondage, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rough Sex, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:28:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21947341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludwiggle73/pseuds/Ludwiggle73
Summary: Arthur welcomes Ivan home.
Relationships: England/Russia (Hetalia)
Series: Christmas Tidbits [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1580215
Comments: 6
Kudos: 45





	Honey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Violet_showstopper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violet_showstopper/gifts).



> For my lovely RP partner - stay nasty <3

Ivan knocked on the door.

Even just that, the thumping beat, was enough to send him back. It was a lie, all the training and trials. Everything they did in that first year was perfect, arrays of soldiers marching lock-kneed, a thousand boots on pavement, turning and saluting in sync. A game of cards where all followed suit. But the reality was nothing like that. There was no order. There was no sense at all in battle. There was only a great confusion, a fear, and—if you were lucky—a hatred. A hatred made it all so much easier. No drink could drown sorrow as deep as hatred.

Ivan was not absolved of his. He still owned more than his fair share of confusion, fear, and hatred. But he’d been discharged. Thanked for his service, returned to sender. They’d kept him long enough that infection was no worry, he’d healed the worst of it in the med tents, then some more on his journey home. He wouldn’t die, but he wasn’t whole. He could never be whole again.

The wind picked up, swirling snow around his head. He still had his scarf, the very first one sent in those monthly packages. He’d kept all the letters, too. He suddenly hoped, standing here on this stoop, that he would never read them again. He rapped his knuckles against the door, just beneath the wreath.

The door opened.

Ivan saw that one moment, that half second of his love standing there in his old vest and trousers, his hair a mess as always, his face only partly welcoming, polite inquisition. Then he recognized who stood on his doorstep, and Ivan nearly fell over backwards with the weight of him.

“Oh, my God.” Arthur was shaking in his arms. “Every time someone knocked, I thought they’d tell me you were—”

“No.” Ivan squeezed him even tighter, breathing him in. Now they were both shaking. “I’m here.”

“You’re here.” Arthur pulled back enough to frame his face in his hands. He saw everything Ivan wanted to hide, but all he did was kiss him, and kiss him again, and again. “You’re here.”

Eventually, they made it into the house. Arthur led him into the living room, sat him down on the sofa. “I’ll make tea,” he said, but Ivan had taken hold of his wrist. Arthur stopped.

“No tea,” Ivan said. “Just you.”

Arthur stared at him, then slowly lowered himself down onto the cushion at Ivan’s side. His hand rose, but didn’t touch his face, just hovered. “You never wrote . . .”

“I had no time,” Ivan said. All of it had been slow and fast at the same time, morphine blurred all time into nothingness. “I was healing, and then I was home.”

Arthur squeezed his lips together. “Is it . . . do you want to talk about it?”

Did Ivan want to recount the last battle? The slaughter, being holed up beneath the bridge, the melee that he won but his face lost? The sight of the blade glinting in the sunlight, then slicing close, so very close? The heat of blood pouring down his face? The shouts of his comrades for a medic? The constant assurance that he would make it, when all the time he was doubting if he even wanted to?

“No,” he replied. “Maybe later. Some day.”

Arthur’s smile was bittersweet. He wrapped his arms round Ivan’s shoulders. “All I care about,” he said, tears rasping in his throat, “is that you get a someday.”

For the first time in months, Ivan smiled. “I missed you.”

“Yes, well, you’re lucky you came home.” Arthur moved into his lap, straddling him. His hands smoothed back Ivan’s hair. “I was just about to come over and get you.”

“I saved you the trip.” Ivan’s hands were on his ass. Oh, he missed this. He needed this. The mind could have the talking later, but the body needed touch now. He kissed Arthur and tasted the desperation in him. _Now,_ his lips pleaded, _now, now._

Ivan tore Arthur’s shirt from his body; buttons flew in all directions. Arthur arched into him, coming to life under his touch, a flower in sunlight. Ivan lifted him up, higher, needing him closer. Arthur’s arm shot out to steady himself and he knocked the framed photo of them onto the floor from its place on the end table.

All Ivan heard was the crash, and he was on the floor, covering Arthur with his body.

Arthur stared up at him, eyes wide. “Ivan. Ivan. It’s alright. You’re here, love, with me. Yes?” His fingers were on Ivan’s cheeks. “You see me. Don’t you? Only me.”

Ivan blinked his single eye. He was not in the ruins. He was not under the bridge. He was here, home. Warm. “Only you,” he said, dragging his mouth over freckled skin.

Gently, Arthur pushed his shoulders until they both sat up. “I don’t think we should do it here,” he said, voice softer than the crackle of the fire. “I think we should go upstairs. I think it’s been too long since you were in control.”

And just like that, it was what Ivan needed. He picked Arthur up like a bride and carried him to their bedroom. From there, it was a familiar dance: they undressed each other and Ivan bound Arthur’s wrists to the headboard. Arthur’s eyes traced Ivan’s new scars. Ivan’s tongue tasted Arthur’s old ones.

“Do you want it?” Ivan said, the question no one had asked him.

“Please,” Arthur said, spreading his legs even wider, offering all he had.

Ivan took all of it, first with his mouth, then with his hands. He’d forgotten he was capable of this, touches that did no harm. He’d forgotten how powerful yet tender it felt, making Arthur tip his head back into the pillows and sing that filthy song. But it wasn’t enough, and they knew it.

Ivan slicked himself and mounted Arthur, thrusting hard and fast from the outset. Arthur cried, eyes already unfocused, forced down by the fury of the hips rocking into him so relentlessly. Ivan kissed tears from his cheeks, then bit bruises into his shoulders. And even still, _still_ —Ivan surged forward, shoving Arthur’s legs onto his shoulders. For all the injustice of this war and those before and after, Ivan growled and pounded and raged. The bed thumped against the wall. Gunshots. Arthur opened his mouth to scream, and Ivan’s hand went around his neck. Arthur’s eyes flew open.

But Ivan was here, looking into those eyes until their fear faded, replaced with more burning lust. Ivan knew the limits. He knew every inch of Arthur, every facet. He was ally and enemy. They had fought on this battleground countless times. They tore each other to pieces and put them back together again. Ivan always took care of Arthur. Now, Arthur would be the one to heal him.

Pale skin was turning red beneath his freckles. Ivan held a moment longer, timing it with the rhythm of their aching bodies, and there it was. A chain reaction: Arthur gasped and the rush of it had him coming—he jerked through the waves of pleasure, cursing in broken tongues—Ivan gave a final thrust into rippling warmth and he was done. He collapsed onto Arthur and they both lay still, panting, ruined.

The deliverance was not yet complete. Arthur still needed him. Ivan got up, wiped him clean. He made him a cup of tea, with a healthy helping of honey. The shelf was well-stocked; Ivan had forgotten Arthur’s family kept bees. Perhaps that would be their life when this was all over, the free air of the countryside, fresh vegetables from the garden, sunflowers brighter than sunlight. Yes, Ivan decided as he kissed Arthur gently, he would like that fate very much indeed.

It was only a strained whisper against his lips, but he still heard it.

“Merry Christmas, love.”


End file.
